


Resignation

by tenshi_who



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenshi_who/pseuds/tenshi_who
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cristiano gets hurt (again), and Kaká is overprotective (as always).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resignation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sparksfly7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksfly7/gifts).



> This was written after the match against Celta Vigo where Cristiano's leg was gauged open by a nasty tackle but no cards were given out. Or it could have been written after the match against Levante where Cristiano's eyebrow was split open, lost vision in both his eyes, and got a concussion, but no foul was called.
> 
> Don't mind me, I just have a lot of feelings.

Cristiano is already in the locker room by the time Kaká gets there. He's sitting on a bench, shirt off and draped around his shoulders like a towel, pant leg hiked up. There's a member of the team's medical staff kneeling in front of him, first aid kit open at his feet.

Pepe is rubbing Cristiano's back as he hisses in pain. The medic is dabbing at the gash with an antiseptic cloth, mopping up the blood and disinfecting the area. Pepe looks up when Kaká arrives and motions with his head for him to come over. He makes room for him to sit next to Cris, and Kaká grabs the Portuguese's hand. Cristiano immediately clutches it, recognizing the feel of his boyfriend's hand in his without needing to open his eyes.

He sits with Cris through two stitches. His hands are red and there are crescent marks where Cris's nails dug in at the first feel of the needle, and he has to flex his fingers to get the circulation back.

"How bad is it?" Kaká asks, and then winces at his own stupidity. The man's getting stitches, for the love of god. Of course it's bad.

Cris shrugs, face blank now as the medics put a large bandage over the wound. "It's nothing," he says, tiredly.

"Cris, you bled all over your sock. That's not nothing!" Kaká answers back, disbelieving. The rest of the team is pointedly minding their own business. It's not a secret that Cris and Kaká are close, and while there are not many things that will make Kaká lose his shit, they've all at some point seen the midfielder's angry tirades of overprotectiveness of Cristiano.

The last time was after the match at Sevilla. Kaká hadn't even played that game, but was in a sour mood the next practice. The Brazilian was upset at the sight of the scabbing cut on Cris's elbow when he’d come home. He tried to coax a name out of Cris, plying his lover with kisses and caresses, but Cris wouldn't give him one. Frustrated, Kaká pulled himself out of bed ignoring Cris's sleepy whine, and took to Youtube in search of Cris's aggressor.

According to Fábio and Pepe, Kaká has now planned out his next foul in Sevilla. Five months in advance.

Cristiano shrugs again, sighing. "It's a white sock, of course it's going to look worse than it is."

"No, i-"

"Look," he cuts off Kaká, "it was just a tackle. It was almost at my knee, it bled like a bitch, it wasn't called, but it was just a tackle. Everyone gets hurt at some point, Kaká."

The resignation in his voice makes Kaká hesitate, the anger slowly draining out of him. "But I don't see 'everyone' walking around with gashes all over like you always seem have," he says softly.

Cris ducks his head and smiles thinly, picking at the edge of the crisp, white bandage on his leg. "It's ok. I'm used it now," he answers, any hint of bravado or pride gone from his voice, just that melancholy resignation, and worse, acceptance. Cris just accepts that this is how it works: he gets kicked until he bleeds and no one does anything about it. Kaká's anger fizzles away, replaced by a deep pang of sadness aching in his chest, because it's not like he can do much either.

"You shouldn't have to be," he whispers. The medics are gone, most of the players are gone, it’s pretty much just him and Cris in the locker room. Cristiano finally gets up from the bench and steps forward into the circle of Kaká's waiting arms. Kaká hugs him tight and rests his head on the Portuguese’s shoulder and just holds him. With the press team outside and a few players lingering, it’s the most he can do.

"Thanks for at least caring about me, love," Cris's whispered breaths ghost over Kaká's ear. "But I can take care of myself."

Kaká hugs him tighter before letting him go. "I'm coming over tonight, still. Just to verify."

Cristiano laughs, eyes crinkling, and with his smile tinged with a whole new kind of resignation.

 

~*~

 

Cris meets his family by their cars once all his press duties are over. Cristiano waves off his mom with a smile (she seems even more concerned for him as Kaká was) and searches for Junior. His son is wriggling away from Zé, wanting to be put down to see his daddy.

"Hey, little prince," Cris greets his son. It hurts to bend his knee too much so he doesn't squat down, just reaches down to fluff up Junior's locks and goes to pick him back up. His son won't let him and he latches onto Cris's leg, the one with the cut on it.

He looks up with his wide eyes and asks, "Hurts?" He doesn't wait for an answer before he's pressing kisses to the parts of his father's leg that he can reach. "Beijinhos make better!" He presses another kiss to his knee and, surveying his work, determines that he's done and makes grabby hands for Cris to pick him up. He hoists his son up and puts him on his hip, kissing his face and making a big show of stretching out his leg, showing Cristianinho how it's magically better.

Cris sees Kaká out of the corner of his eye, heading down to his car a few spaces away. He catches the other man's eyes and Kaká winks at him, smiling at the scene. The Brazilian's eyes say, don't forget, I still have to make sure.

Cris hides his smirk by blowing a raspberry into Junior's cheek.

 

~*~

 

Kaká keeps his promise and indeed shows up at dinner time. They eat together in the living room, curled up on the couch chatting and idly scrolling through channels on the TV. The Barça match is on 3 different channels and the third time they see BAR | DEP on their screen Kaká stops it there.

They've barely watched 20 minutes of it, halfway through the first half, and already there have been two Deportivo goals and two Barcelona yellows.

"See, even Barcelona is getting yellow cards," Kaká pipes up. "Even Iniesta gets a yellow. I don't see why everyone else gets protected this way and you keep coming home bleeding." That trace of anger from earlier is creeping back into his voice.

Cris rests his hand on his boyfriend's cheek and turns Kaká's face toward his. He kisses away the familiar pout. "Using my own pout-face against me," he admonishes, smiling against Kaká's lips.

He makes to pull back but Kaká leans forward, following his mouth and pressing him closer. "I just don't like to see you hurt." He runs a finger over Cristiano’s eye brow, tracing along that spot where his hairs won’t grow, that old scar from another in-game injury.

In the background, Messi scores his second goal, but all Cris can hear is the blood pounding in his ears as Kaká's hands begin to wander, one hand buried now in his hair keeping him in place and the other trailing down his collarbones and finding its way to all the spots that make his back arch. Plates and silverware lay forgotten on the coffee table as Cristiano pushes Kaká down to the couch, settling on top of him.

The second his knee touches the couch by Kaká's hips his whole leg burns in pain and he pulls away from Kaká with a gasp, wincing.

"My leg," Cris grits out, getting up off the couch. "I can't-"

Kaká silences him with his mouth, muffling all of his lover's halfhearted protests. He pulls Cris back down and pushes him down by the shoulders, laying him down gently back onto the couch. By the time he's straddled him, Cristiano's already smiling again.

Kaká presses his lips to that smile, to those crinkles by his temple, wandering down an imaginary trail along that strong jaw. "Don't worry about anything, ok?" He breathes into Cris's ear. "Let me take care of you."

Cristiano's toes curl.

Maybe someone else scored a goal on TV. Or maybe the cheering is all in his head, his mind's auditory response to Kaká's words, to the sight of the Brazilian carelessly peeling his shirt off and tossing it in the TV's direction.

The action makes Cristiano suddenly very aware that he's still fully clothed, socks and belt and everything, and he follows suit, throwing his clothes at the TV as well. Someone in blaugrana is being sent off, he can't see who because his boyfriend's boxers just hit the screen and Cris rips his gaze from the TV, eyes snapping back to his lapful of now-naked Kaká. Kaká, who's already undone the buckle of his green and red Gucci belt and unbuttoned his jeans, slipping a hand inside and cupping him, making him groan as he pumps Cris’s erection slowly, teasing. Cris’s hips buck, a groan ripping from his throat.

Kaká lifts off of him to let him shimmy out of his jeans and kick them off. They’re wearing nothing but their necklaces, Kaká’s cross and Cristiano’s rosary, and Kaká settles down on Cris’s lap, eyes bright and pupils blown, holding a promise of many good things in store for the Portuguese.

Cris loses track of time for a while, buried under wave after wave of sensation. The room is filled with nothing but the sound of Cristiano and Kaká, their groans and sighs and sounds of pleasure, and maybe, somewhere distant, the sound of a stadium cheering them on.

 

~*~

 

It's a sharp, repetitive 'clack-clack-clack-clack' noise that pulls Cris from his sleepy haze. He stretches out his back like a cat, arching up on the couch, loose-limbed and very much sated. The clock says its quarter past three and the plates are put away, the TV's off, and Kaká… is sitting on the floor by the couch with his laptop on. He’s attentively studying a grainy Youtube video, and takes his headphones off when he sees Cris watching him.

"What're ya doin'?" Cris mumbles, sleepily.

"It was either Lago Soto or Tunez," Kaká slurs, voice thick and eyes bleary. "I'll find out who did it in a second. Go back to sleep love, I’ll join you in a minute." He puts his earphones back on and focuses on those two Celta defenders, eyes peeled for any violent action against that blurry blob of pixels with the number seven on its back.

Cristiano lies back down on couch and almost falls asleep contemplating whether or not he should get up and go lay in bed. He decides against it with his eyes closed, and scratches up and down his bare belly absently. The tinny sound of the laptop match suddenly sounds louder and he peels an eye open. Kaká has an earbud in hand, turned around, watching him with a soft smile, the light from his computer giving him a surreal, back-lit glow.

"Forget that. Jus' c'mere," Cris pats the couch next to him, eyelids dropping again. He hears shuffling, the quiet click of a laptop closing and feels his lover crawling into place next to him. Cris curls into him, burrowing his face into the crook of Kaká's shoulder.

He feels an arm wrap around his shoulders, and the feel of Kaká surrounding him and the heat of their bodies is lulling him back down to slumber.

He barely hears one last thing;

"It was Tunez."

Cristiano falls asleep with a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ on October 21, 2012.
> 
> I'm on tumblr! [Stop by and say hi!](http://soliamosquedar.tumblr.com/)


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